The doctor emerged from the ICU with a calm but serious look, turning to the mother who waited anxiously by the door. "Your child is stable now," he said. "But he'll need to stay here for a few days to rest."
Relief flooded her face. "Thank you, Doctor. Please, just make sure he recovers fully."
Dr. Srinivasan nodded and, after reassuring her once more, walked down the stairs, nodding politely as nurses greeted him. "Good evening, ladies," he replied, offering a small smile as he headed out of the hospital.
Once in his car, he pulled out a small cooler box from the passenger seat and carefully placed a blood sample vial from the ICU inside it. There was another vial already waiting there At home, he combined the two samples in his private lab, watching as the blood merged with an unusual ease. His eyes sparkled with a hint of excitement as he whispered to himself, "A 95% match… it's almost perfect."
He prepped a syringe, drawing a single drop of the new mixture. "Tomorrow," he muttered to himself, "I'll inject this into the boy. Let's see what effect it has." His curiosity was intense; he didn't sleep at all that night, instead reading medical journals and taking notes feverishly.
The next morning, he was driving back to the hospital, but his lack of sleep made him groggy. He didn't notice the motorbike until it was too late. The bike skidded across the road, the rider thrown off, bleeding. Bystanders crowded around, some shouting angrily at Dr. Srinivasan. Within minutes, a police car arrived, sirens blaring.
"Step out of the car, sir," the officer instructed.
Dr. Srinivasan complied, holding up his hands. "I'm Dr. Srinivasan," he said calmly. "Check the CCTV; he crossed the white line."
The officer nodded and asked him to follow to the station to confirm. At the station, the footage showed that the biker had indeed crossed into the wrong lane. The officer sighed, "You're clear to go, Doctor. Thanks for cooperating."
"Not a problem. I'll treat him free of charge," Dr. Srinivasan said with a composed smile.
"You're a good man," the officer replied, tipping his hat.
With a nod, Dr. Srinivasan drove back to the hospital, entering the ICU once again, now face-to-face with his young patient from the previous day. "This injection will help you recover faster, my boy," he said.
The boy, Amon, shook his head stubbornly. "I don't want any injections! Leave me alone."
His parents stepped in. "Amon, you need this. Please, listen to the doctor," his mother urged. Reluctantly, Amon agreed, and Dr. Srinivasan injected him with the experimental blood sample.
"Now, rest," he instructed the parents. "Wait outside for two hours. I'll monitor his vitals."
The mother nodded, following her husband out of the ICU. Alone in the room, Dr. Srinivasan watched Amon for a moment, his expression unreadable before he stepped back to his office. Five minutes later, a deep frown formed on Amon's face. He clutched his head, groaning as an intense headache suddenly surged, then his muscles stiffened, and he collapsed into an unconscious state.
When two hours had passed, Dr. Srinivasan returned to find Amon lying calmly, his breathing even. As he entered, Amon's eyes fluttered open, his face peaceful and pain-free. Dr. Srinivasan flashed a smile.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, checking Amon's pulse.
The boy blinked. "Better… the headache is gone."
The doctor nodded approvingly. "Excellent. You're ready to go home."
Amon's parents were overjoyed, expressing their heartfelt thanks to the doctor and the hospital staff before they took their son home.
Yet as Dr. Srinivasan watched them leave, his thoughts were already elsewhere. What he had just seen in Amon's condition was unexpected, perhaps even miraculous. He couldn't shake a sense of lingering excitement and anticipation as he returned to his lab, setting up the files to track Amon's progress. Tomorrow, he would visit the boy's family personally, just to observe how he was doing…
Little did they know, a transformation had already begun inside Amon, one that would soon reveal abilities and side effects beyond anything the doctor had anticipated.
Dr. Srinivasan sat in his office, going over the details of the man who had lost his right arm in the accident. His name was Jehovah, a young man who had already suffered so much. The file revealed that Jehovah had lost his parents in a tragic accident and had been working tirelessly at a local restaurant just to get by. As the doctor read the file, the memory of the accident replayed in his mind. The guilt gnawed at him, knowing he was responsible for Jehovah's condition.
Suddenly, a groan from the bed interrupted his thoughts. Jehovah was waking up.
The doctor walked over to the bedside, and Jehovah opened his eyes, groggy and disoriented. "Where... where am I?" he asked weakly.
"You're in the hospital, Jehovah," Dr. Srinivasan said calmly.
Jehovah's face twisted in confusion. "Why? What happened?"
"You were in an accident. You crashed into my vehicle, and your right arm was severely injured," Dr. Srinivasan explained, trying to keep his voice steady. "We had to amputate it to save your life."
The words hung heavy in the air. Jehovah's eyes widened in shock. His hand instinctively moved to where his right arm should have been, but all he felt was empty space. The realization hit him like a sledgehammer.
"No..." Jehovah's voice trembled with disbelief. "No, no, no, this can't be happening! I need my arm! How am I supposed to work? How am I supposed to survive?"
Panic quickly turned to rage. In a blind fury, Jehovah lashed out with his left arm, trying to hit the doctor. "You took my arm!" he screamed. "I need my arm!"
Nurses rushed into the room, grabbing Jehovah and restraining him before he could hurt himself or anyone else. Despite their efforts to calm him down, Jehovah's anger and fear only grew. Tears streamed down his face as he thrashed against the restraints.
The doctor remained silent, watching Jehovah struggle, understanding that no words could soothe this kind of anguish. He waited until Jehovah's energy began to wane, the raw fury turning into bitter sobs. When the nurses finally released him, Jehovah slumped back onto the bed, his body exhausted, his spirit shattered.
Dr. Srinivasan took a slow breath before speaking. "Jehovah," he said gently, "I understand what you're feeling right now. But please, let me help. I can provide you with a robotic arm, one that's advanced—stronger, faster, able to do things no ordinary arm could. It's not the same, I know, but it could give you a chance to regain your life."
Jehovah turned his head slowly, his eyes red and swollen. "I don't want a robotic arm," he whispered, his voice a blend of anger and defeat. "I want my real arm back. I want my life back."
Dr. Srinivasan felt a pang of regret, but he held his ground. "I understand. But please, think about it. This prosthetic could be the first step towards rebuilding your life."
Jehovah remained silent, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, refusing to acknowledge the doctor's words.
Realizing that Jehovah needed time, Dr. Srinivasan left the room, a deep sense of unease settling over him. The events of the past few days felt heavy, like pieces of a puzzle he couldn't quite see fully. First, Amon's unusual recovery with the blood transfusion, and now Jehovah's traumatic accident. The circumstances were beginning to feel too coincidental.
Later that night, Dr. Srinivasan returned home, but his mind was far from at ease. He poured over his research notes, analyzing the data on blood transfusion effects and the experimental mixture he had administered to Amon. His theories on blood fusion, adaptation, and rapid cellular response had seemed promising—until now. The effects on Amon's physiology were far more intense than anticipated, and with Jehovah's situation added to the mix, he began to question his own motives. What had started as a groundbreaking idea was quickly turning into something far more dangerous.